Yet another in a seemingly never-ending succession of biopics with no
discernible point or reason for existence, hip artist Julian Schnabel's
paean to dead hip artist Jean-Michel Basquiat is occasionally engaging,
but traffics in too many clichés, and tosses in far too many
meaningless celebrity cameos and downtown in-jokes, to rise above mere
self-congratulation. Like last year's interminable Carrington, another suffering-artist tale in which
the act of creation seems incidental, Basquiat substitutes trivial
anecdote and "colorful" characterization for dramatic and emotional
resonance, and offers virtually no insight into its protagonist's life or
work. Jeffrey Wright, reportedly a brilliant actor (he played Belize in
Angels in America on Broadway), is given little to work with, and
turns in a maddeningly opaque performance -- his Basquiat seems
perpetually distracted and/or bored, as if he, too, were waiting for the
movie to locate a coherent viewpoint and get going. Without a compelling
center, the film drifts from scene to scene inoffensively, and only the
familiar faces compel attention. David Bowie is reasonably distracted and
aloof as Warhol, though I prefer Jared Harris' interpretation in the
superior I Shot Andy Warhol; Gary Oldman (as
Schnabel -- is it mere coincidence that he's the most centered and
immediately likable character in the film?) and Dennis Hopper (cast
effectively against type) also fare well. But these pleasures are
fleeting; in six months' time, I expect that I'll have difficulty
recalling much of anything about Basquiat...though I suppose that
Schnabel's inexplicable choice to intercut an argument between Basquiat
and his (singularly generic) girlfriend with clips from Ladislaw
Starewicz's remarkable 1922 stop-motion short Frogtown will stay
with me. A dubious achievement, but better than nothing, I guess.